


Spectral

by AnaScrawls



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Gen, Hershel is being subconsciously reminded of his childhood, Tags to be added, he is a bit spooked, very mild descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaScrawls/pseuds/AnaScrawls
Summary: Whilst travelling aboard the Bostonius, Hershel contemplates who or what the enigmatic Desmond Sycamore reminds him of, but cannot put his finger on it.





	1. Who?

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be multiple chapters - some one-shot anecdotes and then some multi-chapter bits that will all join up in the end!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layton can't find the right word to describe Professor Sycamore - and seems haunted by memories he's sure he doesn't have.

That Desmond Sycamore was an enigma was a universally accepted fact. But the more he knew him, the more Professor Layton felt that the description was severely lacking.

When they met, Hershel had been overwhelmed by a sense of awe – as though he were meeting a god – and then a sense of confusion as he clasped a soft, living hand in his and took in bright, sharp eyes and elfin chin.

Yes, Desmond Sycamore was an enigma. But no, he was too alive to be a god – yet all at once not alive enough to be a man. His very being seemed to shimmer, as if behind a veil. _Like a memory_ , Professor Layton thought, but banished the notion soon after. They travelled from Froenborg to Kodh, then Kodh to London, and all the while Professor Sycamore danced like a flame out of Hershel’s reach. A puzzle locked in a room with no way in.

The two professors temporarily parted ways in Layton’s office, and In London’s busy streets Aurora began settling in. She warmed quickly to Luke - Hershel smiled to see the two so happy – and she gazed with wide-eyed wonder at the world around her (incomparable, the Professor supposed, to the world of the Azran, yet nonetheless different). Luke’s eyes widened with her. Like a contagious disease their wonder spread, and both Layton and Emmy joined them, trying to help describe to Aurora the function of every provision, every grocery.

In the Professor’s case, however, the innocent light-heartedness of the mood was not to last. The re-appearance of Targent drew his mind back to the inevitable – warn Professor Sycamore. But what was Professor Sycamore?

Back at the Bostonius, as Layton filled Sycamore in on the details, he felt a chill run up his spine. Like there was something he had forgotten, something very urgent. Over Desmond’s shoulder, he saw Raymond watching them both with an odd mix of relief and worry. Hershel caught the old butler’s eye, and the Scot gave him a blithe smile. 

They trickled out of the airship again to pursue Targent, Professor Sycamore trailing behind like a ghost.

Their meeting with Clark in the museum was a worrying affair – all three archaeologists dismayed by the forgery. On their way out Clark caught at Hershel’s elbow.

“Well, well, well, Hershel old boy,” he said with a laugh, “Who’d have known you were able to forge such connections with academic royalty? He’s got a sharp mind, that one. Unusually perceptive, or so I’ve heard. Just what have you gotten yourself into?”

Hershel watched the others walk ahead – the children hanging of Desmond’s arms, pulling him toward the giant skeleton in the centre of the room, which he must have seen a thousand times – and gave Clark a wry grin. “I’m not sure yet,” he replied at length, “But it’s bigger than anything I’ve ever uncovered before. It’s...quite the enigma.” _He’s quite the enigma_ , he meant to say, but instead he grasped Clark’s arm in a friendly farewell. He was about to turn when Clark’s voice stopped him again.

“He’s spectral.”

A pause. “What?”

“He’s spectral,” Clark said again. “Don’t you think?”

From then on, the word clung to Hershel’s memory like a particularly stubborn vine. It wove itself through his opinion of Professor Sycamore, until they were inseparable: he was an enigma, he was kind, he was spectral.

As they travelled the world – as the group came to know each other better – the word came to suit Desmond in more ways than Hershel would admit. The man was kind, gentle, sweet and soft spoken. He could be quick to anger, and yet quick to forgive. He would put his guests before himself, accompany them as they went sightseeing, and then hole himself up in his tiny study to finish work and papers that he could have done during the day. Hershel came to recognise when he was feeling anxious, and when he was giving one of his rare, genuine smiles – yet through it all Professor Sycamore stayed at a distance, trapped behind a veil, hovering between the living and the dead.

Spectral was the word that was used, and spectral was the word that stuck.

He mentioned it to Emmy once. She laughed at him, but could see where his logic had sprung from. “Don’t mention it to Professor Sycamore,” she said after a moment, “I’m not sure he’d take too kindly to being called a ghost. You almost made it sound as if he was someone you knew who had died, Professor!”

Hershel didn’t say it out loud, but a tiny voice in his head told him she was right.

He was almost afraid sometimes that Desmond would catch him staring – but Hershel couldn’t help it. Professor Sycamore was a puzzle in human form. A walking enigma. His greatest challenge yet.

They had been travelling for a handful of weeks when it happened. Hershel was restless, the moon shining bright through his window, and an overwhelming sense of unease flitting through his stomach. He couldn’t sleep. He pulled himself from his bed to search for a glass of water, but no sooner had he opened his door than he saw a figure – slight, pale – lingering on the threshold between the hallway and the cockpit. Professor Sycamore’s head snapped with unerring swiftness to face him, and their eyes locked.

For a moment, Professor Layton felt a swell of emotion rise within his chest, feelings of home and childhood and family arising all at once. Then it faded away, as he registered Desmond’s empty scrutiny – his large, haunted eyes that seemed to gaze through him, beyond him. Hershel began to approach with caution, noting uncertainly that the Professor’s unseeing eyes never once left his face. Hershel reached forward in an attempt to shake Sycamore from his reverie, grasping Desmond’s elbow, his hand becoming cloaked in the other’s gossamer hair that tumbled and pooled around his waist.

Sycamore’s skin was cold as ice, and he stiffened at Hershel’s touch. The latter froze along with him, but in time Desmond’s posture softened, and when he spoke his voice was clear and bright.

“What did you say?”

Taken aback, Hershel’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t say anything,” he said slowly, and the other professor turned to face him fully.

“You did,” he retorted, and Hershel realised with a start that he wasn’t fully awake. He sounded childish. “I heard you.”

With care, Hershel took in Desmond’s full complexion. Pale and thin, he quivered in the cold night air. And yet his expression was defiant, his eyes like steel – an invisible power formed a shield around him, until he seemed untouchable. Hershel took a mental step back from his previous stance, electing instead to be diplomatic. “What did I say?” he asked softly. A part of him was afraid of the answer – the other hoping that it would tear down the wall that stood between them.

Desmond blinked at him – once, twice – then turned, defeated, back to the window. “Home,” he said simply, “But you didn’t say that. Not then.”

Hershel’s mind reeled with the ambiguity of the answer – so much information contained in such insignificant words, but it couldn’t find a way into his brain. Desmond did not look at him as he pulled his hand away.

“You should go back to sleep, Hershel Layton,” he said, his voice adopting a tone of – dismay?

Somewhat unnerved, Hershel tried to reason with him. “So should you,” he replied. “It’s almost 3 in the morning.”

Desmond turned back to him again with that transparent look – he smiled a believably reassuring smile, and said: “Don’t worry, I am,” with such confidence that Layton felt obliged to take another step backward. Desmond followed his movements with quiet eyes, watching as Hershel took another uncertain step away, then another. He did not feel comfortable leaving Sycamore alone in the hallway like this, but there was such a force behind those eyes – such an inexplicable power – that seemed to force him back into his room, and Desmond was left alone.

For the rest of the night Hershel couldn’t sleep – until sunrise the silhouette of Professor Sycamore against the light of the moon was burned into his memory, unearthly and yet so achingly familiar.

_Spectral_ , said the voice in his head again. _Like a ghost from your past_.

His long distant past.


	2. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layton worries that Desmond will be lost to him - but with little reason.

The children had been so enchanted by San Grio that it had been decided (at Raymond’s insistence) that they stay a while. However the hotel on the hill, whilst comfortable and friendly, had been incredibly difficult to find a room in. To the surprise of all it had been Professor Sycamore who had saved the day – the desk clerk had melted at his smile, and had practically bent over backwards to find each of them a room. They had ended up with some of the best suites in the building, and when they brought it up with Professor Sycamore he had just flushed a little and laughed, claiming that he had no idea what they were talking about.

As dusk settled the lights began to spring on in the houses below them, like tiny fireflies. They had been told by a passer by that there was a festival on the following evening, and the streets were bustling with energy.

“It says there’s going to be lanterns!” Luke read with excitement from the pamphlet in their room. “And prizes! Professor, can we go?”

Hershel, who had settled himself on the lounge nearby, looked up with a smile. “I don’t see why not,” he said, then checked himself and glanced up at Desmond who was hovering by the window. The other looked surprised to be consulted, as though he did not expect it.

“Certainly,” he answered Hershel’s look, then sounded almost wistful as he continued. “I haven’t been to anything like that in years.” He paused, as if confused. “Well, not really... I’ll ask Raymond to come, too.”

Luke responded with a shout of excitement – Aurora, bewildered, was suddenly regaled with tales of festivals he had been to in the past, tales of the food, the rides, the parades. She looked to Emmy after a few minutes of this with wide eyes.

“It sounds huge!” She exclaimed, and Emmy smiled kindly and laughed.

“Yes,” she said, “But it’s fun!”

Hershel saw Luke’s expression grow crafty out of the corner of his eye, and he resisted the smile that threatened to spread across his face as the boy sidled up to Emmy. “Are you sure you’re not just excited about the sweets, Emmy? I remember the lengths you went to in Misthallery...” Emmy frowned down at him, playful, as Luke turned to Aurora. “Don’t follow Emmy around, Aurora, or she’ll make you miss out on all the fun stuff.”

Emmy was incredulous. “Luke Triton, passing up food for the sights at a festival? I’ve never heard of such a thing. You’re losing your touch, _second assistant._ ”

As Luke’s expression turned to righteous outrage, Hershel chuckled and stood up. He felt exhausted from the events of the day, walking back and forth across the island again and again. He realised with surprise that Desmond had left his post by the window. For the few seconds that he couldn’t find him, Hershel’s heart hammered in his chest. A wild, childish sort of panic overtook him. In the depths of his memories he recalled his hands being pulled from the hands of another, and turning away from someone with large, sad eyes and elfin chin.

He calmed when he spotted the open balcony door, leaving Emmy and the children to their playful bickering to find Professor Sycamore.

The other man stood immobile by the railing, looking down to the ground with a slight frown etched into his features. He seemed ready to topple, flutter like a broken leaf to the ground, but straightened up when he heard Hershel’s footsteps. He looked vaguely embarrassed to have been caught, but covered it briskly with easy conversation.

“I think I should just check back on Raymond in the Bostonius,” he said lightly, ignoring Professor Layton’s worried look, “I haven’t seen him since this morning, and he tends to fret.”

Hershel looked out across the steadily darkening sky. He could see the Bostonius in the distance by the shoreline, bobbing gently with the tide. “He’s very fond of you,” he commented softly, and the ghost of a smile – a real smile -  graced Desmond’s lips. He bowed his head a little.

“We’ve been through a lot,” was the reply, and for a brief moment the veil that separated him from the rest of the world fell. To Professor Layton he suddenly looked very warm, very real – and then it was back up again. Desmond shook his head as if to settle the veil back in place, then bowed a little as he turned toward the door. “I’ll leave now,” he said, with a distracted smile, “Before it grows too dark.”

Hershel was overwhelmed once more with that sense of fear – as if to let him leave now would mean he wouldn’t come back, and Hershel would forget him – and he barely restrained himself from catching at Sycamore’s arm. “It’s already dark,” he said eventually, desperately. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

Unexpectedly, Desmond laughed – a bright, carefree sound that seemed foreign on his lips, and lingered like a phantom in the air. “Always the gentleman,” he chided, “It’s not far. It will be perfectly safe.”

Hershel wanted to remind him of the dangers of Targent, but Desmond seemed to understand him regardless. His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly, and he turned definitively back to the exit again. “I’ll be alright,” he said, as if to reinforce his point. “Please don’t wait for me – I may take a short while.” And he swept out the door. 

When Hershel re-entered the suite a few minutes later, Emmy, Luke and Aurora were curled together on the couch, reading and re-reading the pamphlet with vivid enthusiasm. “Where did Professor Sycamore go?” Aurora piped up as soon as she set eyes on the professor. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, to cover the unsettling feeling that encompassed him.

“He’s gone to see Raymond,” he said. “He’ll be back soon.”

Emmy raised an eyebrow. “He’s gone to see Raymond _now_?” She sounded incredulous.

Luke – perceptive child that he was – was looking directly at Hershel. He seemed to sense the Professor’s unease, and reached up to tug at his sleeve. “Aren’t Targent still on the island?” He asked, worried. “They don’t seem to like Professor Sycamore very much.”

Hershel almost laughed. _An understatement_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t. “He insisted,” was his alternative, “And he said not to wait. I elect instead we all go downstairs to the restaurant and find dinner. What do you think?”

All the faces around him brightened, and cries of mutual excitement filled his ears. They rushed to collect their shoes and jackets. As they did so, Hershel closed the doors to the balcony. He thought he caught a glimpse of Professor Sycamore at the entrance to the hotel, vanishing like a shadow down the hill.

Hershel felt an immense, childish, inexplicable sensation of loss. _I’ll be back_ , Desmond’s voice seemed to echo in his head.

But why then – why – did Hershel have this awful feeling that he would lose Desmond every time he left his sight?


	3. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel goes for a walk

They returned from dinner a few hours later to an empty room – Hershel could almost swear he heard every breath hitch, every mind whir for an explanation, just like his own.

“Raymond probably needed his help with something,” Emmy said with confidence she did not have. It was easier to say that than to acknowledge the threat of Targent, or indeed to acknowledge that they didn’t believe Professor Sycamore to be nearly as capable of protecting himself as he claimed. He had a gentle, unassuming air that didn’t denote him as a fighter.

Every eye had turned to Hershel now – even Emmy, as though she were seeking reassurance for her own words. He adopted his calming smile, and rested his hand on Luke’s head. “That’s probably it,” he said simply, “And he’ll be back soon. But it’s time for bed, Luke. And you, Aurora. I’ll sit up and wait until he comes back, if it makes you feel better.”

Aurora hesitated, then yawned and with some gentle persuasion followed Emmy down the hall. Luke remained a moment longer, looking intently into the Professor’s face.

“Are  _you_  alright, Professor?” He asked at last. His keen eyes sought Hershel’s own, and an understanding passed between them.

“I’ll be fine, my boy,” Hershel replied, avoiding the boy’s unspoken question. Luke was dissatisfied with that answer – one could see it plainly on his face – but said nothing more, giving the professor a quick hug before rushing off to his own bedroom. Hershel was left mute on the lounge, watching the window, waiting. He vaguely registered Emmy coming out to say goodnight to him as well. She lingered a little way off, out of the moonlight streaming through the window. If Hershel didn’t know better, he would have said she hesitated before speaking.

“I thought maybe Raymond had the same idea as you... that it’s probably better for Professor Sycamore not to be wandering around a strange town in the dark with Targent on the loose,” she began, softly so as not to disturb the children. “But then wouldn’t he have contacted us to let us know? He seems very formal in that regard – wouldn’t it be unlike him to leave us hanging?”

Hershel frowned a little and shifted to face her. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, not willing to concede that he was thinking the same thing. “But I don’t want to jump to conclusions – he’ll come back, we just need to wait.”

Emmy tilted her head. “You don’t sound so sure.”

For some reason this hurt Professor Layton more than he cared to admit – a gaping hole opened in his heart, and he was overwhelmed for a split second by the emptiness within. “I  _am_  sure,” he urged, yet sounded even less certain than before. At Emmy’s raised eyebrow he forced a smile. “If you’re worried, I’ll come and wake you if there’s any trouble.”

Emmy fixed him with an inscrutable look. “Alright,” was her reply – nothing else needed to be said, for she trusted him – and Hershel was left to watch the window once more. He could see the moon rising outside - merely a wedge tonight, odd and restrained. He heard Emmy stop moving in her room down the hall, paused a moment further, then collected his hat and coat from the back of the chair and passed soundlessly out of the suite.

_A walk,_  he thought to himself,  _If anybody asks, I went for a walk to clear my head while I waited._

He tipped his hat to the kindly receptionist, who seemed pleased, but not surprised to see him.

“You’re off looking for your friend, are you?” She asked, not expecting an answer. “He left quite a while ago – important business, was it? It must have been, for this time of night.”

Hershel was careful not to give a straight answer – he danced around her questions with a warm smile and a carefree expression. “Yes – I was just going out to meet him, catch a breath of fresh air... you don’t mind if I...?” He trailed off, and the receptionist waved him away good-naturedly.

“No, no, you go on. But I would recommend coming back before it gets too late – the winds can get a bit nippy up here late at night.” And then as Hershel turned she stopped him with a laugh. “Take care, sir, that your friend doesn’t get blown off before you find him. Eerie thing, isn’t he? Like my little daughter, really – a breath of wind and you’re sure they’ll be gone in a puff of smoke!”

Hershel returned her laugh with one of his own, and the promise to come back before the winds picked up. But a voice came crawling into his skull, clawing its way in inch by agonising inch, hissing:  _like a ghost...he’s like a ghost..._

He shook it out and kept walking, down the long entrance to the empty streets, and then down further still. Despite the deadened atmosphere he could feel eyes boring into the back of his neck, watching - but when he turned there was nothing.

The wind disturbed the trees – Hershel felt a thrill of fear run down his spine ( _Like a ghost_ , breathed his mind), watching a cloud dissolve into nothing as the breeze strengthened. A dream (or was it a memory?) joined the chorus of whispers in his mind. He was being pulled away, gently, but firmly, from warm hands and a cold house – from large eyes that held within them wisdom beyond their years. And a child – it was  _him_  – screamed at the night in a faraway place:  _Come back, come back!_

With a start he came to rest by the edge of the walkway, his breathing heavy and his chest tight. Hershel ran his hand over his eyes – it seemed to him to be shaking, but why? – and tried to calm himself. Irrational, he thought. People don’t vanish into the wind. Not  _real_  people.

He straightened up and looked down the hill – the Bostonius was half hidden in the shadow of a cloud, but Hershel could see only one light flickering within.  _Raymond’s room_ , he thought briefly, but was interrupted by a soft voice near his ear.

“Professor Layton?”

It took all of Hershel’s self-control not to jump. He turned with relief to face Professor Sycamore – so close he could reach out and touch him – who watched and waited with wide eyes and an expression of vague surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

Hershel let out a long breath. “I came to find you,” he said, then added quickly, “The children were worried about you.”

Desmond laughed. It was a breathless sound, transparent. “That’s very sweet of them,” he replied, then recovered himself. “Raymond was having some engine troubles – I stayed and helped him fix it. I asked him if he would like to come up to the hotel, but...” Desmond trailed off, thoughtful. “He wanted to stay with the Bostonius, just to keep an eye out.”

Hershel turned and motioned for Sycamore to follow him. As they fell into step, Hershel glanced back at the path from which Desmond had came. “That wasn’t the quickest way back,” he commented slyly. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Hershel thought he saw Desmond’s cheeks flush a deep red. The other professor glanced up at him with an expression of unguarded embarrassment.

“Oh.” Desmond shook his head a little and forced an uneasy smile. “I... ran into some trouble on the way back. A few Targent agents. They didn’t see me!” He added quickly as Hershel stopped and turned to face him fully. “I just went the back way – Bronev must have them all positioned in the streets. They still appear to be desperate to get the egg.”

Hershel’s heart stuttered in his chest –  _vanish like a breath of wind, like a ghost_ , his head murmured – and he took a moment before replying. “They’re very... insistent adversaries.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of Bronev,” Desmond said darkly, eyes flickering with a surreal light. Hershel longed to ask what he meant – how he knew this terrorist leader so well, and why he was so desperate to hate him – when Desmond’s eyes snapped upwards. He grabbed Professor Layton's arm to stop him from saying anything further, and both went perfectly still. Hershel could feel his heart racing as he watched Desmond's eyes rake over their surroundings, then linger for the slightest moment longer in the shadows nearby.

A breeze ruffled their hair. Restless with adrenaline, Hershel placed his other hand on Desmond’s. “We should go,” he whispered, and received an inclination of the head in return. As they began to walk once more Hershel leaned toward Desmond’s ear. “Is it Targent?”

“We won’t get far,” was the only response.

“How many?”

“More than one.”

As they rounded the corner the street ahead was empty, and Hershel began to pick up the pace. “We should call the police.”

Desmond shook his head with an exasperated sigh. “How? And besides, there’s no point. The police won’t help.” They rounded the next corner and started up the dirt path to the hotel. The trees shielded the moon from view, and every shadow seemed to Hershel to be in the shape of a human being, just waiting to leap out. Unexpectedly, Desmond slowed down, tugging on Hershel’s sleeve until he came to walk beside him.

“Have we lost them?” Hershel asked desperately. There was energy still thrumming through his veins, and his mind was anxious. Desmond’s delayed response was answer enough.

“There are... more than I thought. These aren’t ordinary soldiers I’m afraid, Professor.” Then he paused. “I’m so sorry.”

Hershel was taken aback. In the semi darkness he could barely make out Desmond’s frame – he quivered just within reach, like a shadow, and on his face was an expression of genuine remorse. “For what?” Hershel breathed, and Desmond hesitated. For a moment he seemed about to speak, but at the sound of heavy boots tramping upon foliage both whirled to look behind them. A large group of dark-clad soldiers were emerging one by one from the trees, their movements solid but precise. Hershel saw the outline of one – squarely built with massive shoulders – step ahead of the rest. Beside him Desmond stiffened.

“Well, well, well,” The man growled, prowling forward like a wild animal. “Professor Layton – what a surprise to see you here.” He came to a stop in a sliver of moonlight, the shard of light fracturing his face. He turned his head slowly to look at Professor Sycamore, pulling a twisted grin. “We weren’t expecting  _you_ ,” he said pointedly, “to be accompanied.”

Desmond lifted his chin in haughty defiance. The panic rose in Hershel’s chest again ( _Don’t go, don’t go!_  Screamed the voice in his head), and he grasped Desmond’s shoulder. “There are too many to fight,” he hissed urgently, noting with fear the spark of reckless bravery in Desmond’s eyes. The other man arched his brows.

“Run when I say so,” he replied simply, tilting his head to look up into Hershel’s face, then back toward the hulk of a man approaching them, upon whose face was plastered a contorted grin.

“You’re outnumbered,” he growled. “And outmatched. You can’t run from us, professors, so don't even-”

He didn't get the chance to finish. In a single, fluid, whip-like motion Desmond drew a tiny white pellet from his pocket. Hershel had just enough time to catch the bold smile that Sycamore flashed his way before they were enveloped in thick mist, and he was pulled into a stumbling run up the hill, shirt pulled over his face, eyes squeezed shut against the stinging fog.

Hershel could hear the panicked shouts of the men behind them as pelted out from the cover of the trees and towards to hotel - yet as the entrance to the building began to loom up ahead, a man tackled Hershel from the side with dizzying force. Desmond skittered out of the way, dodging a dive from another man who emerged from the path ahead. Breathless, Hershel found himself locked in a tense struggle with the Targent soldier who had attacked him – both evenly matched for strength, however the other man had a ruthless glint in his eyes that alarmed Hershel to his core. He could see another heavily built soldier charging him from the right, and battled to force his opponent out of the way before it was too late-

Inches away from him the second man went limp, collapsing soundlessly to the ground like a broken doll. Further up the hill Hershel could see two other men collapsed upon the ground, like puppets with their strings cut. His current adversary froze, stunned, and Hershel took the opportunity to push him out of the way. No sooner had he done so than a figure leapt over his head in a flash of fluid, deadly precision. The man crumpled to the ground to join his fallen comrades, and Hershel gazed with shock into Desmond’s steely eyes.

He didn’t look so fragile now.

“Those men in the forest won’t be stopped for much longer,” Desmond told him urgently. “I don’t think they’ll follow us if there are too many people. If we get to the hotel, we should be safe.”

Ahead of them more men were approaching, more warily than those who came before them, but determined nonetheless. “Do you have another smoke bomb?” Hershel asked urgently, but Desmond was gone before he could finish, catching a man who had lunged at them completely off guard and toppling him before he could blink.

With a mixture of fear and admiration Hershel watched the scene unfold, as if within a dream. Professor Sycamore was fast – light on his feet and quicker than the rest of them. He dodged and dove and danced above their heads like a bird, and though entirely outmatched in strength, his movements were sharp and precise, and his skill far superior.

The next few moments were frenzied, Hershel desperately trying to force his way forward, each movement feeling unnatural as he parried and fought soldier after soldier – and above it all Professor Sycamore spun and whirled with lethal accuracy – unnerving and eerie and devastatingly quick.

The sounds of whistles blowing and shouting from further down the hill made Hershel turn his head – the police! – but no sooner had he done so than a fist connected with his abdomen, catching him by surprise and leaving him winded. He let out a strangled cry of pain, then wished he could swallow it back.

In nightmarish slow-motion Hershel watched Desmond freeze in shock at the sound of his voice, watched his attention waver for the slightest second, watched as the soldier beside him recognized his opportunity. With destructive force the man charged, slamming them both into a tree. His very being crackled with dangerous energy – Desmond, momentarily overcome, went limp as he was crushed against the wood.

_Gone_ , hissed the voice in Hershel’s head,  _like a puff of smoke – like a ghost._ He felt his chest constrict and his mind grind to a numbing halt, and for a split second the world was completely still.

Then, out of nowhere, there was Raymond – Hershel could see every inch of his wiry frame working to force this man away, then throw him to the ground. The soldier scrabbled backwards, feet slipping on the grass, face contorted in fury – an expression that vanished as voices grew louder from below.

“Stop! This is the police! Stop right there!”

Swiftly, Targent scattered, and uniformed police officers went racing after them in all directions. Hershel straightened himself up, trying to ignore his aching stomach, and hurried, panting, to where Raymond was helping Professor Sycamore up from the ground – however the old Scotsman’s face was riddled with such tender concern that Hershel paused, feeling immensely intrusive. Raymond wasn't speaking, but Desmond was already trying unsuccessfully to placate him.

“I’m alright, Raymond – really! – It was just  _one man_ , I don’t – you don’t – and Professor Layton-”

He froze as he said this, glancing suddenly and desperately over Raymond’s shoulder to find said professor. He relaxed as Hershel approached, leaning on Raymond’s shoulder as the old man turned to look at him as well.

As he drew near, Hershel noticed with a start that Desmond’s eyes now held in them a light he’d never seen before. It was fading quickly, along with the adrenaline – yet its remnants were there: a striking sense of life, a fire that lit his soul and made Desmond seem unusually real – vibrant, even.

“Professor, are you hurt?”

The question shook Hershel from his reverie – he started at Raymond’s voice, and managed a smile.

“A bit winded, perhaps, but nothing I can’t walk off.” Internally, he thought it might bruise a bit, but Hershel didn’t voice this out loud. Instead he turned all his attention to Professor Sycamore, and caught in his memory the last of the flame in Desmond’s eyes before it went out. It vanished in a breath of wind, and Desmond seemed to fold into himself again, as if exhausted. "But what about you, Professor Sycamore? That man-!"

Desmond let out a weak bark of laughter. “I'm no worse than you, Professor. The most I’ll have is a bruise.” But his eyes betrayed him, and Raymond clicked his tongue. Desmond shook the worried looks away and abruptly changed the subject. “You have impeccable timing, as always, Raymond. Thank goodness for those smoke bombs you gave me earlier - but how did you manage to find us here?”

Raymond glanced up at him surreptitiously. “I followed you,” he said breezily. “I saw those men lurking around nearby when you left the Bostonius, and couldn’t let myself sit around and wait, so I followed you.”

Desmond appeared bemused, then opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a voice nearby:

“Sorry to bother you – I’m Sergeant Mayfield, with the San Grio police force.” A weedy man approached them and tipped his cap. “Just checking that everything’s alright here – nobody’s hurt?”

Hershel had half a mind to say yes, but Raymond beat him to it. “No, sir. Everything’s fine.”

The Sergeant nodded. “Thank goodness for that – we’ve had a bit of trouble with these goons here and there. Any of you know who they are?” There was an awkward silence as the three of them debated how to reply – but Mayfield moved on regardless. “Of course not. Tourists, right? Are you all up at the hotel?”

“Yes, sir,” said Professor Sycamore quickly. The Sergeant seemed to relax.

“Good, then. Best get up there as quickly as possible – don’t want civilians out in a situation like this.” He began to turn away, then backtracked. “You wouldn’t mind if I called you in for a statement tomorrow morning – only if anything happens, mind you. I can contact you at the hotel?”

Hershel gripped the brim of his hat. “Naturally,” he responded, and the policeman smiled his thanks, sidling back down the hill. Raymond watched him go, then turned with purpose toward the hotel.

“That’s that, then,” he remarked. “Come along, both of you. You’d best hope the children didn't call the police to look for  _you_.”

They trekked the rest of the hill in silence, Desmond leaning on Raymond’s shoulder, Hershel recovering his breath. At the entrance to the hotel Raymond gently pushed Desmond away and ahead of him. Both professors blinked at him.

“I’ll be going back to the Bostonius, sirs,” he explained, in answer to their quizzical looks. “I’d rather not leave her alone with Targent on the prowl.”

Desmond huffed indignantly. “Raymond, you can’t be serious! Not after all that – the suite has another room, you know-”

Raymond held up his hands. “I can handle myself, sir. Don’t worry.”

Hershel felt tempted to back Desmond as the other's face melted into uneasy concern. “But Raymond, what if-?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“But-!”

“Des!” Raymond’s voice rumbled deep in his chest, like distant thunder, and Desmond fell silent. Raymond grasped one of Desmond’s hands in his with stern but gentle eyes. “I'll be perfectly alright.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, then Desmond looked away. Raymond smiled, victorious. “ _Goodnight_.” He bowed deeply to Professor Layton, gave Desmond a final look, then turned on his heel and walked back down the hill. The professors watched him go in silence.

Hershel glanced eventually at Professor Sycamore. He seemed to waver in the moonlight, large eyes holding inside them the memory of something that Hershel felt he, too, should be able to recall, but couldn’t. Around them, the wind whistled through the trees – and for a fraction of a second, Hershel saw Desmond disappear before his very eyes.

“We should go inside,” he muttered. “It’s getting cold – and I have the feeling Luke is still awake.”

Desmond gazed up at him – his face closed off once more, trapped behind the veil. “He must have been worried about you,” he said simply, with the hint of a grin.

“He was worried about you,” Hershel replied with a smile, but in his head he replayed Desmond striking the Targent soldiers from above, unerringly swift, and then being smashed like a broken bird against the tree. The thought made him shiver. He tried to shake it off.

Together they trailed into the lobby, Hershel ahead, and Desmond flickering one step behind.

_Like a ghost._..


End file.
